


the purest expression of grief

by quiet_awkward



Series: mockingbird [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, But he's trying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt's getting there, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet_awkward/pseuds/quiet_awkward
Summary: Geralt hears the question before Jaskier even opens his mouth to ask, "Do you not have a soulmate, Geralt?"The warmth and comfort of the campfire suddenly don't feel like enough, anymore. The pensive silence is cold and eerie and dreadful.Geralt meets Jaskier's gaze and answers, simply, "I don't.".It's common knowledge that witchers don't have soulmates. Geralt doesn't bother himself with the rumors. Surprisingly, Jaskier doesn't either.Until he does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: mockingbird [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733842
Comments: 42
Kudos: 978





	the purest expression of grief

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Откровеннейшее выражение горя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199681) by [SpiritHallows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritHallows/pseuds/SpiritHallows)



Geralt is very selective about what he’s willing to talk about with the bard. He doesn’t talk about himself. Doesn’t talk about Kaer Morhen. Doesn’t talk about Roach. When he does speak, it’s only in gruff fragments and vague details.

He had smiled to himself at Jaskier’s indignation. He still does, to this day. It doesn’t take much to ruffle the bard, he finds -- but it takes much more to truly irritate him.

The only thing Jaskier never asks him about is soulmates. Geralt decides that it’s just as well. Perhaps the bard heard the rumors and decided it wasn’t worth his time. Perhaps he just doesn’t care enough to mind. He hasn’t once brought up his own. It doesn’t come up, and Geralt doesn’t bring it up, either. Even as the scar over his heart prickles and flares with phantom pain.

So they don’t talk about it, not until a passing traveler on the road spits at Geralt’s boots and sneers, “Why the ‘el is this  _ disgusting  _ Witcher in my face? What a bunch of bull. Such bad luck.”

Geralt doesn’t even bother looking at him, brushing past the man. Roach softly whinnies in his ear and he shushes her quietly. Jaskier, on the other hand, bristles.

“What’s your deal?” he hisses. “We’re just passing by!”

The traveler glowers at Jaskier, and when Jaskier doesn’t take that as a sign to leave well enough alone, Geralt sighs inwardly. He makes it a few more steps, but it’s clear that the bard isn’t following him. He pats Roach reassuringly and smiles when she stares hard at him, long-suffering.

“What about ye?” the man scoffs, “What fool forces themselves to be with a monster undeserving of company?”

“He’s  _ not  _ a monster,” Jaskier says, seething. “And he deserves company more than  _ you  _ ever will. Who are you to judge, anyhow?”

“ _ Destiny _ passed her judgment. Witchers are nothing but monsters. Even the Lady herself denied them the right to soulmates!”

Jaskier startles, eyes going wide and then brows furrowing together in confusion. Geralt looks upwards, closes his eyes, and counts down from ten, praying for peace. He resists the urge to press his hand over his heart, to dig his fingers into the scar.

“That -- What do you mean?”

“Witchers can’t have soulmates,” the man spits. “They’re more  _ fiend  _ than man _. Destiny  _ demands it _ ” _

Jaskier socks him in the jaw, knocking the man to the ground. Geralt opens his eyes and sees the bard looking just as surprised as the traveler does. When the man grits his teeth and scrambles to right himself, clenching his fists, opening his mouth to shout --

Geralt steps forward, towering over the traveler, bares his teeth and lets out a low growl. He hisses,  _ “Lay off.” _

The man shakes in his boots, eyes flashing between fear and hurt pride. He stinks disgustingly of sweat and piss and fear. He’s not worth anything.

“Leave,” Geralt rumbles, nodding to the path, “And you’ll only have a sore jaw. Don’t, and you’ll leave anyways nursing a broken one.”

The man grumbles and backs off wisely, heading onward to whatever his location is.

Jaskier hisses and kicks the dirt after the man. “The  _ nerve  _ of that prick!”

Geralt stares at the bard. “Don’t pick fights that aren’t yours.”

“He called you a monster!!”

_ “Me.  _ Not you. Just move on, next time.”

Jaskier stares at him incredulously. “But you’re  _ not  _ a monster, Geralt!”

“I’m certainly not human, either, bard, so he’s not wrong.”

“You might not be human, but you’re  _ certainly  _ not a monster.”

Geralt sighs and rubs his face. “I’m a  _ mutant,  _ Jaskier.”

Jaskier nods. “Right you are! That doesn’t make you a monster.”

It jostles something loose inside Geralt, the proclamation -- something indescribably liquid soft and warm. It’s strange and foreign, and he hates it immediately. The worst part of it, too, is the sincerity behind it -- how Jaskier’s heart thrums steadily without faltering, the clarity sparking in his eyes, and his unchanging scent. Jaskier truly believes the sentiment.

It baffles Geralt. It confuses him.  _ It upsets him. _

Jaskier doesn’t understand, then -- because only a fool would think that, and Jaskier is a fool.

Geralt grimaces and pushes past Jaskier, brushing aside the unwarranted swelling of anger in his gut. “Let’s go, Roach.”

“Wha -- Wait!  _ Geralt!” _

“Move along, bard.”

.

It’s easy to tell when Jaskier broods.

(He’s  not  _ brooding;  _ he’s  _ pondering --  _ he’s  _ considering  _ life’s greatest treasure; its deepest secrets. Or, so he proclaimed, really, once. To Geralt, the bard had been entirely brooding.  _ Sulking  _ would be more accurate. Even throwing a tiny fit.

It was -- amusing, to say the least, even after Jaskier threw his boot at him.)

Jaskier spends his time silent instead of talking or singing or humming. He doesn’t frolic or pluck at his lute’s strings. His arms cross and his fingers rub mindlessly against each other. His lips purse together, biting them, brows creasing at the center and he inclines his head at the slightest angle, and Geralt knows he’s deep in thought. He believes he knows what about. Geralt doesn’t bring it up, though. He never has, and he never will. So he ignores Jaskier’s inquisitive glances and keeps moving forward.

When they finally make camp for the night and they’ve eaten, Jaskier is humming again with a soft smile on his face, strumming along his lute. Geralt tends to his swords, sliding them along a whetstone beside Roach, who nudges him on occasion, demanding a treat, and snorts meanly when Geralt says no.

Then, Jaskier picks at a string too strongly, too off key, and all sound halts. Jaskier looks at him even as Geralt doesn’t -- who single-mindedly, deliberately focuses on his swords, consciously knowing that he’s putting the whetstone down too softly and too cautiously grabbing the oiled cloth to wipe his swords -- and clears his throat a bit too loudly, a bit too awkwardly.

Geralt hears the question before Jaskier even opens his mouth to ask, “Do you not have a soulmate, Geralt?”

He’s sure he keeps his face neutral, but he supposes he’s not quite successful in that endeavor. He wonders what must show on his face to have Jaskier snap his mouth shut, to make him smell of guilt and regret, for him to be wrongfully ashamed.

The warmth and comfort of the campfire don’t feel like enough, anymore. The pensive silence is cold and eerie and dreadful. It takes an unnecessarily long while for Geralt to open his mouth from its hardened, flat line -- for him to work up the well-practiced phrase, for him to ignore the burning sensation over his heart, and for him to remind himself that Witchers aren’t supposed to feel --

But Geralt meets Jaskier’s gaze and answers, simply,

“I don’t.”

They lay out their bedrolls not long after. Jaskier takes to his own and lies down on his side, facing the campfire. Geralt doesn’t follow. He feels too restless, feels electricity thrumming beneath his skin. He settles against the trunk of a tree, opposite of Jaskier, away from him. It makes breathing a little bit easier. It makes the scar burn fiercer. He ignores it, barely palming over it for a millisecond before redirecting his attention to the forest around them, vigilant.

He hears Jaskier sigh and turn over. The lingering scent of regret, regret,  _ regret  _ never quite leaves. The warmth never quite comes back.

Geralt closes his eyes, turning away the image of Jaskier looking small curled in on himself, and listens to the hard, hurried  _ thumps  _ of Jaskier’s heart.

.

The next morning, Jaskier smiles brightly up at him. Too bright. Geralt feels exhausted just looking at it.

He’s too cheerful, too upbeat, too chipper, especially at the break of dawn. Geralt already knows something’s wrong because Jaskier doesn’t even wake up at dawn. He scents the air, and -- figures -- there’s the slightest whiff of regret and guilt.

Geralt scowls at Jaskier. “Stop that,” he says.

Jaskier looks confused. “Stop what?”

Geralt can’t just tell him to stop smelling the way he does.

(And he remembers telling Jaskier off for his empathy once, only for Jaskier to shove at him and yell for hours about how just because Geralt’s claimed to not have feelings, that he actually  _ does _ , and that it doesn’t give Geralt the right to deny Jaskier his own.

Maybe it started then -- Geralt thinks back -- when his scar started acting up again.)

So his scowl deepens and he turns back to Roach with a grunt, tying off the rest of their stuff.

When they move on, Jaskier prances forward with a nervous energy about him. He’s too antsy, too anxious. The unnerving smile still sits on his face, and he’s too forceful with his one-sided conversations. Silence comes for barely two seconds before it’s unbearable and Jaskier is once again speaking. Geralt breathes quietly, heavily, through clenched teeth.

For the rest of the day, Geralt expects the question to pop up again, feels it like a looming shadow. He prepares himself for it, going over how Jaskier might ask, how Jaskier would work up to ask, how he, himself, would answer, this time. This time, he wouldn’t let Jaskier feel guilty for something he has no business feeling anything for.

So when Jaskier shuffles closer and looks meek, Geralt steels himself, tongue already caught and jaw clenched tight.

“What’s our next destination, Geralt?”

Geralt blinks and glances at Jaskier. The bard, oddly enough, stares at him with deference, albeit greatly misplaced. Geralt can’t bear it, so he averts his gaze forward and kicks Roach up a pace.

“There’s a village four days out. If we take less breaks, we should be there in three.”

Jaskier gripes for a moment, but trods on diligently. “Well, good! I’m getting sick of rolling around in the dirt, and, quite frankly,” he throws a sly look at Geralt and then scrunches up his nose, “You  _ stink.” _

Geralt snorts. “As if you’re faring any better, bard.”

“Well, at least  _ I  _ have put some effort into keeping myself nice and tidy.”

Geralt hums, thinking that Jaskier’s perfumes were the opposite of nice and tidy -- the scent mingling with dirt and sweat and heat weren’t the greatest of combinations. He doesn’t comment, though, wanting to avoid another of Jaskier’s rants. He’s had enough for today.

“Ah, and he’s back to being broody again,” Jaskier says, and it sounds -- deceptively fond.

He looks at Jaskier, and Jaskier, noticing, perks up and grins.

The hours pass peaceably. Jaskier has forgone speaking and has taken up his lute, humming and plucking along the way, murmuring to himself and sticking out his tongue every now and then. They still regularly take breaks throughout the day. Jaskier may say otherwise, but Geralt knows his limits, and Geralt refuses to push him unnecessarily.

Geralt still waits. Perhaps the bard is waiting for a better moment. Perhaps he’s abiding his time. Perhaps he wants to catch Geralt off guard. Geralt doesn’t know what to think. But Jaskier doesn’t ask that night, nor the days after. And whenever Jaskier catches Geralt staring, a soft smile appears on the curve of his lips, and the heavy tension in Geralt’s shoulders eases bit by bit.

.

White Orchard isn’t exactly welcoming, but then again, humans rarely ever take kindly to witchers. At least, so far, no one is throwing stones at him, nor are they driving him out -- only sneering and shunning and spitting the occasional insult. Jaskier’s hackles rise, but Geralt gives him one look and he reluctantly deflates.

While Jaskier goes off to find the inn, Geralt turns to the notice board to see if there are any contracts. When he finds none, he looks around for a merchant to restock on low supplies and a blacksmith to tend to his swords. He makes sure not to linger too long, especially when he sees in his peripherals bandits eyeing him. They turn away when he straightens and glowers at them, and he’s certain they don’t have the balls to do anything, but humans have always proven to be dumb and senseless. He guesses he might see them when he and Jaskier leave the village.

Roach stomps her hooves and huffs, nudging him.

“Yeah, I know, I know,” he whispers to her and moves on.

It’s dusk by the time Geralt returns to Jaskier. He leads Roach to the stables and gives her to the stablehand, who flinches and shakes and refuses to even look at Geralt. The inkeep looks at him distastefully when he enters the inn, nose scrunching. Geralt doesn’t know whether it’s because of how he smells, or because he’s a witcher, or because of both.

She jerks her head over to the hall. “Your bard is in the farthest room on the right. Your bath is already ready.”

Geralt nods. He makes a note to himself to thank Jaskier for getting the bath. No matter what he says, and no matter how used he is to this life, he can’t deny that a hot bath does have its wonders.

When he enters the room, he’s assaulted by the strong scent of lavender. “What,” he rasps, “The  _ fuck.” _

“Geralt!” Jaskier cheerfully yips, and in his hand is the open vial diffusing the smell. “I was just about to --”

_ “Put it the fuck down.” _

Jaskier’s brows furrow. “But --”

_ “Jaskier.” _

Jaskier pouts. “Rude. You  _ do  _ realize that you horrendously stink, no?”

Geralt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He just wants his bath. And Jaskier would deplore if Geralt were to forgo the scented oils.

So Geralt grits out, “Just -- The chamomile.” Because at least that scent was more bearable.

Jaskier brightens and grabs another flask and hands it to Geralt. “I was initially going to pour in a few drops into the bath, but considering that you’re here already, would you mind rubbing that on yourself? I promised the inkeep a performance for the night in return for the bath.”

“Just don’t go sticking your prick in any unnecessary areas.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Yes,  _ darling.  _ I’ll be back before you know it.”

He leaves, brushing past Geralt, smelling of fresh, clean honey and warmth and the strong odor of lavender. 

Geralt breathes out. Finally, peace and quiet.

.

It’s not as quiet as it is peaceful. Geralt lies content in the tub, lightly dozing. Outside, he hears the raucous roars and cheers of the patrons singing and dancing and the sound of laughter like mesmerising chimes that Geralt absently registers is Jaskier. The scar on his chest singes just a bit, and he mindlessly smooths it over with a hand.

By the time Geralt finally decides to step out of the bath and get dressed, Jaskier steps back into the room, flushed with elation and mildly of ale. Geralt’s pulling on pants as Jaskier practically gushes,

“Geralt! My dear witcher! How has our time away been, hm? Did you miss me at all? How did your bath fare?” He sniffs the air. “Aha! I see that you took delight in my chamomile! Thank the gods. You really needed it. I know you could do without, but mind you, my nose is quite sensitive and I can’t go traveling with you all --” he gestures at all of Geralt, grimacing when Geralt inclines his head with a raised eyebrow -- “smelly.”

“First, your nose is too delicate, and now has your tongue failed you, bard?” Geralt teases. “Is that the best affront you can make?”

“Puh- _ lease,  _ Geralt. I have merely loosened up!” He hiccups and burps and cringes. “And maybe -- maybe I had one too many ales.”

Geralt hums, haphazardly toweling the rest of himself dry.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Jaskier starts. Geralt straightens and looks long-sufferingly at him. Jaskier smiles widely at him, innocent and soft. His fingers run over the scaled scar just over Geralt’s heart, and he asks, “What is this? You never talked about this one.”

Geralt doesn’t startle, but he grits his teeth, feels the muscle shifting in his jaw, and grunts and resists the instinct to shove the bard off and away from him. He reels away instead, grabbing his shirt in haste and pulls it on and doesn’t look at Jaskier once. The fabric clings uncomfortably to his skin, and it chafes against the scar flaring up with new vigor where Jaskier has touched it.

He valiantly tries to occupy himself with other things: keeping stock of what they have and will need, despite already replenishing their items earlier that day; mindlessly grabbing his swords, and then remembering that he’s already oiled and sharpened them; pulls his hands away from his bag and sits cross-legged on the floor, closing his eyes, wanting to meditate.

He can’t. Not with Jaskier’s silence weighing on him like the weight of a troll against his sword. Not with Jaskier shuffling awkwardly around the room, presence suddenly louder than when he demands it.

Geralt heaves a sigh. His shoulders and back tighten uncomfortably and he straightens himself. Jaskier meets his gaze and presses his lips together in a flat line.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and it surprises Geralt. Some of it must show on his face because Jaskier rolls his eyes and he flops onto the bed. “I know you, Geralt, and I know when you’re hurting.”

Geralt’s slow heartbeat falters and he growls, “I’m  _ not --” _

“You’re not hurting, whatever you say,” Jaskier says with a wave of his hand. “Witchers don’t have feelings, blah blah  _ blah.  _ You keep telling yourself that, and I’ll have my own reservations until proven otherwise, alright? Great, good! Now that that’s settled, why don’t we get some sleep now? It’s been an exhausting day for the both of us; it’s well-deserved, don’t you think? Come on now, dear Witcher.”

There’s a beat of silence -- four precise slow heartbeats. Jaskier rolls onto his side, set to go to bed, to fall asleep with his back turned towards Geralt. He sleeps close to the edge of the bed, leaving more than enough room for Geralt to crawl in, curled into himself, and Geralt finds himself suddenly overwhelmed with -- with a  _ yearning.  _ It washes over him like a tidal wave and Geralt  _ aches,  _ and he despises Jaskier for always doing this to him, for always inciting this response out of him.

“It’s -- a scar,” he whispers lamely, then, into the quiet. Jaskier’s breaths are too even and too shallow -- he’s not asleep, but clearly he’s patiently waiting for Geralt to --  _ speak _ . Geralt lets out a quiet breath, not quite a sigh, and leans himself against the wall. The words burn in his throat, scratching and clawing, and he hates that he has to say them: “It’s where I had my soulmate’s mark.”

Jaskier’s heart jolts and he sits up, staring incredulously at Geralt as something not unlike shame boils beneath his skin. Geralt carefully keeps his gaze averted, silver sword tucked just beside him comfortingly. It’s like an old wound has reopened, and he tears at it ruthlessly, coldly saying, “I burnt them off.”

He waits for it, then -- the putrid smell of fear. The realization that despite what Jaskier likes to believe, despite how much faith he has in whatever humanity Geralt has, Geralt just can’t be humane. That Geralt’s more of a monster than humans think him. That he actually, truly, has a soulmate, and yet Geralt has willingly abandoned them. It should be enough to repulse Jaskier.

It doesn’t come. Instead, the room permeates with the sweet scent of honey and lemon and leaves -- smells so sweetly of affection and care and  _ fucking love.  _ Geralt sucks in a sharp breath, the shock of it leaving him reeling.

Jaskier asks quietly, “Do you...remember what they said?”

“I burned them off some time after I started The Path,” Geralt says, the words like ash in his mouth. He remembers the distinct smell of flesh burning to crisp, the feeling of his skin peeling itself apart and popping and molding back together, the irreparable, disgusting mar left in place of what he used to hold so dear. Remembers the heat of Eskel and Lambert’s hands on his back, anchors against the pain. He shakes his head to clear it, the ache in his chest a mere throb, a phantom forever haunting him.

It’s no time for regret. It’s never a time for regret.

He says simply, “I don’t remember.”

The air shifts just slightly -- the sweet scent taking a heavy, bitter, salty turn.

_ Grief. _

Geralt’s head snaps up and he watches Jaskier stare at him, eyes red and glassy. “Oh,” Jaskier says,  _ “Oh, Geralt,” _ and his voice cracks terribly, sounds so trodden, that the throb in Geralt’s chest bursts alight and anew.

He doesn’t know why he moves, but he finds himself stumbling over himself to stand up to be at Jaskier’s side. He doesn’t know what makes him pull the bard into his arms, but he does and Jaskier burrows himself into the embrace, face shoving itself into Geralt’s shoulder and arms clutching at the back of his tunic.

“Oh, you bloody knob head,” Jaskier whispers, sniffling, rubbing his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck. “You shitty self-sacrificing  _ bastard.” _

“What makes you think it was for them?”

A smack. It stings as much as an ant bite. “Because I  _ know  _ you, you twit. You’re many things, Geralt, and selfish isn’t one of them.”

And Jaskier speaks as if it’s a simple fact. A  _ certainty. _ Geralt can’t seem to find his footing -- he never can, with Jaskier. He doesn’t bother telling Jaskier that there’s some truth in it. Geralt still got rid of his mark out of selfish reasons. But Geralt rid himself of his soulmate because The Path is no place for one. It’s not something he would ever subject anyone to, much less someone he’d care for and care for him back -- someone he would --

Someone he’d love.

This life -- his life as a witcher -- is nothing but death and pain and misery. His soulmate deserves better. His soulmate deserves all that Geralt can’t give them.

(He’d decided, at the time, that if his soulmate died under his care, that he couldn’t -- he  _ wouldn’t -- _

Because his soulmate got him through The Trials. Because his soulmate helped him  _ survive. _ Because all he had left was his soulmate.)

Soulmates deserve happiness, and Geralt can’t give them that.

He doesn’t tell Jaskier a thing. So he continues to hold the bard when neither of them make the effort to pull away from each other.

Then, Jaskier pats him on the back, saying, “Alright, dear Witcher. As lovely as this session is, we need our beauty sleep. Ugh, now I’m all snotty.”

Geralt snorts as he lets go, and immediately feels forlorn and cold. He hadn’t realized how content he was pressed against Jaskier.

Jaskier moves to lie down, poking Geralt at his side with his toes. “Come, now, Geralt. Mind blowing out the candles before you come to bed?”

Silently, Geralt does, crossing the room and pinching each of the flames out as the room falls into darkness. The sting grounds him, somewhat, and he sighs. It catches his attention, then. He scents the air, and it once more smells of honey, lemon, and leaves. He carefully breathes it in, desperate, like a deprived man starved. His eyes land on Jaskier’s prone body, curled up on his side, and something incomprehensible swells just slightly right beneath his ribcage.

He swallows.

“Geralt?” comes Jaskier’s muffled call.

He grunts.

“C’mere,” and Jaskier pats behind him at the empty space there.

Geralt hesitantly moves forward, as if expecting --  _ something _ . It’s not different; it’s not anything they’re unused to. But it  _ feels  _ different, suddenly. He sits down on the bed slowly and then lies down on his back and just stares up at the ceiling. Heat radiates from Jaskier, and Geralt longs to have him in his arms again.

It aches, his scar. He thumbs at it over his shirt. It burns like a fresh, inflamed wound.

Jaskier turns over and faces Geralt. He can’t quite see in the dark as well as Geralt, but Geralt has the distinct feeling that Jaskier knows where he’s looking -- because there’s the salty, bitter scent tainting the honey in the air, and once again, he’s left feeling baffled.

Geralt --

Geralt doesn’t understand.

And so he asks, dumbly and foolishly, “Why are you so sad?”

Jaskier just looks at him, solemnly with a brittle smile. “Because someone has to, for you.”

Maybe Geralt would have expected pity from Jaskier, but  _ grief?  _ For Jaskier to grieve  _ for  _ him?

And that --

_ That -- _

Geralt can’t comprehend it. He swallows thickly and turns away.

There’s a soft sigh and a quiet murmur of, “Goodnight, Geralt,” but Geralt isn’t paying them any mind.

The scar over his heart sears itself into his skin all over again, throbbing uncontrollably.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Title comes from Hozier's "Foreigner's God"


End file.
